


Embers and Ash

by LyraNgalia



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, F/M, Gen, Post Season 1, Post-Sodden Hill, Speculation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-03
Updated: 2020-01-06
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:21:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22097080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LyraNgalia/pseuds/LyraNgalia
Summary: The fires of Sodden Hill have burned, and all that remains is to pick up the pieces.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 60
Kudos: 337





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Originally the second half of [A Vision in Firelight](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22079215%22), but it didn't really fit the mood. So it became a self-indulgent little standalone bit of angst all on its lonesome.

***

Sodden Hill was black with smoke, and a handful of survivors rose out of the shadow of the keep's walls as dawn broke. There was no flames, no fire upon the hill, not anymore, but smoke hung thickly, as if an inferno had raged moments ago. Geralt moved mechanically, faintly aware of the small tight grip Ciri had on his hand, as he climbed.

_Who's Yennefer_? The young girl's innocent question echoed in his mind as his feet dragged the two of them up the hill. He saw a mage whimpering against the keep's door, her hair a crisped halo, her skirt bloody among twisted vines, and something about her seemed familiar, but he couldn't stop. She wasn't Yennefer, and therefore in this particular moment did not matter.

“Yennefer!” he shouted again, feeling his voice grow hoarse. Ciri echoed him, recognizing that _something_ important was going on but not knowing what, and again her name came back on the wind, another voice shouting, female, rough.

For lack of any better options, he headed towards the other voice, the one who was clearly not Yenn but was looking for her. Beside him, Ciri stumbled, caught herself again, and Geralt had to remember at the last moment not to wrench her up by the arm in his haste. He drew breath to yell again, but ash filled his throat, and he coughed, stumbling, suddenly blinded as he found himself stepping into a patch of grass turned ash, the ground still radiating heat. Besides him Ciri raised a sleeve to her mouth, but Geralt coughed again, the ash hot in his lungs. And then another cough, this time not his, a retching cough, somewhere to his left, and Geralt's steps quickened, stumbling against the scorched earth.

“Yenn?!”

She laid like a fallen doll, the burned grass as dark as her hair, her skirts scorched. But it was decidedly _her_ in all of her frustrating perfection, in all of her extravagance, in all of her suddenly too frail humanity as her body convulsed and a shuddering gagging cough wracked her before she fell still again.

He hissed when his knees hit the ground. It was still hot to the touch, like a furnace radiating heat, how could anyone... Without another word he pulled her to him, lifting her from the scorched earth lest it burned her. He could hear her breathing still, dry rasping breaths, and the heart that beat four times slower than a normal human heart clenched in fear.

_No. I'm not dead, she won't be._ Geralt tried to ignore how, only hours earlier, he had been so close to death himself. “To the Keep,” he told Ciri, nodding towards the still-standing stone walls as he cradled the limp sorceress against himself, acutely aware that he did not know what injuries she'd suffered, what damage moving her might do. But he couldn't leave her there, not lying on a field of smoke and ash.“She needs help, and there's at least one living mage in the keep.”

***

“--not a burn on her--”

“--not the fire that concerns me--”

“--I'm not leaving.”  
  


“--wound looks like it's weeks old--”

“Is she awake?”

“--still here?” “Not leaving.”

Words, scraps of conversation, drifted through the blissful black, their meanings lost, the voices meaning nothing. The void was comfort, was gentle oblivion, and Yennefer drifted back into its embrace.

***

Tissaia de Vries walked into the stone sickroom at Aretuza, her steps heavy, her own recent healing evident in the way she carried herself, and Geralt ignored her, his back rigid against the wall, his sword on his knees. To the untrained observer, it would appear that he'd never moved since he had arrived at Aretuza with Yennefer in his arms and Ciri in tow. To Tissaia's eye, however, it was obvious he had. Yennefer's bedclothes had been rearranged, her hair brushed away from her face, a set of knucklebones having been half-heartedly played in the corner. The witcher, however, remained where he had been every time she'd visited, sitting on the floor, staring at the sorceress lying unconscious in the bed with blank golden eyes, as if he could force her spirit to rouse from sheer force of will.

“I thank you for your service, Witcher,” Tissaia said, the words brisk, formal. “Yennefer is the best student I've ever taught, and I owe you a debt for finding her.”

Geralt's attention did not stray from Yennefer, from the faint rise and fall of her chest beneath the bedclothes. “I've told you before, Rectoress. I'm not leaving until she wakes.”

A flash of annoyance in Tissaia's eyes was the first hint that this had not been the first time she'd approached both Geralt and the subject at hand. The first had been when she'd swept Geralt's small band along with the rest of the survivors of Sodden Hill to Aretuza. The second had been after Yennefer'd been brought to the room. “What do you expect, witcher?” she snapped, “That the second you turn your back that we'll harvest her bones? You may be immune to magic, but _she_ is not. If we wanted to harm one of our own not even your considerable talents could stop us.” A pause, and Tissaia reached out to grip the back of a chair. The burst of anger had cost her, had made the poise of the rectoress slip, and behind the mask was a tension, a fear that no enchanted perfection could hide. Tissaia de Vries was _afraid_.

She glanced over at the sorceress on the bed, her prized pupil. _Let your chaos explode_. Her final words to Yennefer. Had she expected this? People enjoyed the fiction that witchers did not feel. Did they say the same of sorceresses? “I give you my word, Witcher, that no harm will come to Yennefer of Vengerberg,” Tissaia said heavily, loosening her grip on the chair, drawing herself back up, her posture ramrod straight. “The only reason I suggest you leave is that the girl in your care draws attention. And that your presence scares my healers shitless.”

***

_The tumble of dice or bones against stone. Once. Twice. Three times. The scrape of a chair. A girl's soft voice, asking questions. A grunt. The tumble of dice._

Oblivion clung to her like seaweed, like shadow, threatening to draw her back down, but the sounds of life began to permeate her awareness, to call her back to something more than the void of sleep. Yennefer noticed her breathing first, the effort it took to breathe, the faint ache in her... belly? chest? It tugged at her with every inhale, but it was old, the ache dull and diffuse. Then she noticed her parched throat, the papery sound of her own breathing. Small trickles of water had kept her alive, kept her from dying of dehydration, but there had never been enough, lest she choke, drown in her own sickbed. She coughed, and stirred.

“Apple juice,” she murmured, the words a bare rasp, her voice hoarse and unused. She shifted, tried to sit up, blinked, but the world was black.

She reached, groped blindly for a lamp, but feeling nothing near, tried to conjure up light.

The world remained black.

She screamed.

***

Things happened in very quick succession.

Geralt had been halfheartedly playing knuckle bones with Ciri, though his focus had remained on the still-motionless woman in the bed. Supposedly his inattention could have worked in her favour, but his reflexes were still witcher reflexes, and Ciri had to concede that what she had thought was great skill at knuckle bones had been at least partially a fiction perpetuated by the boys of Cintra in reaction to the crown.

But there had been a stir of bedclothes and a rasp of a familiar voice, and Geralt was immediately on his feet, halfway to Yennefer's bedside. “Ciri get the rect--” he managed to get out before a blast of light and force hit him full in the face and Yennefer began to scream.

To her credit, Ciri ran, and it took another heartbeat before Geralt could shake off the stun of the blast and reach the bedside he had been so careful to avoid. “Yennefer!” he said, taking her wrist and guiding her hand down lest she sent another blast at him. She still screamed, and he tried again, his other hand on her face, “ _Yenn_.”

The sound of her name, or the sound of his voice, he did not care to probe too deeply into which, caused her to pause, but her eyes still rolled wildly, wide and violet, as she turned towards the sound of his voice. “Yenn, it's me. It's alright,” he murmured, drawing her to himself, resting his forehead on hers.

“Geralt?” Her voice was a hoarse whisper, pained after the guttural scream. She turned her wrist in his grip, and her hand held his arm in a vice grip, but her eyes were unblinking, unseeing. A note of rising panic, of something edged with despair and pain, rose in her whisper. “I can't see.”

He stared down at her, at the violet eyes that had held him since the time she'd peered at him through a black lace mask, and something twisted inside the heart that witchers were said not to possess. “It's alright, Yenn, it's alright,” he said, hoping he was not lying, as he held her to him. A part of him tried to focus on the fact that she was, in fact, alive and conscious. Surely the mages of Aretuza could fix this, as long as she was alive to be fixed. Still, he held her close, covered her ear with his hand, as he roared for the only person whose power he could expect to fix this, “ _Tissaia!”_

The stones of Aretuza trembled.

***


	2. Through Another's Eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yennefer wakes, but healing a mage is no simple task...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hadn't planned on adding to this one, but inspiration strikes as it wills, so here goes. Thanks to everyone reading for your kind words and encouragement. Without you this definitely would not have happened.

Geralt and Ciri stood in the corridor as the door to Yennefer's sickroom rattled and lightning crackled behind the wood. Occasionally, they could make out what was probably scraps of a spell, half-choked out before another clap of thunder or blaze of light. The hair on the back of Ciri's neck tingled with the power crackling in the air, and she looked up at Geralt, his normally stoic expression twisted into a grimace as he clutched the silver medallion around his neck as if the gesture would keep the medallion from snapping straight off its chain.

“What are they doing to her in there?” Ciri couldn't help but ask after a particularly curdling scream. She had spent the days in Aretuza in a state of near silence, answering to the name Fiona, and generally attempting to understand as much as she could without drawing attention to herself. Among mages, the exercise should have been difficult, but Aretuza had been in a constant state of upheaval with healers stretched thin.

There was another clap of thunder, a crackle of lightning, and Tissaia de Vries' voice, then silence. Utter silence. “Nothing, that's the problem,” Geralt answered, at the same moment that the door opened, revealing the Rectoress of Aretuza, her brow damp with sweat, the smell of smoke and ozone clinging to her. “So much for your finest healers,” he said, turning yellow eyes to the mage, his frustration evident in the low growl of his voice, “I thought you said you could heal her wounds.”

Tissaia looked up, and it was clear to both her and Geralt that the only thing that kept her from attempting to level him with a strike was exhaustion. “Her wounds are more than physical,” she replied, resting one hand on the door frame. Behind her, Geralt could see the healer mage, her skirt singed, pouring some tincture down an unconscious Yennefer's throat. He smelled something faintly bitter in it, and something of recognition must have shown on his face, because Tissaia continued, “There's only a drop of belladonna in that potion, not enough to harm her but enough to put her to sleep, to contain the chaos.” The healer ducked out behind Tissaia, studiously avoiding both Ciri and Geralt's gazes. “She's an uncontrolled conduit to Chaos. Yennefer's control was always hard won, and she let go completely during the battle. Her wounds can be healed, but without her sight, she is terrified, and can't control herself.”

Geralt grunted, and at Ciri's look of confusion, added for her benefit, “You think she can't control her magic because she can't see and that's why she's calling lightning down on every healer you bring into that room. But you can't heal her sight until she can control her magic.” A long pause, then Geralt nodded, pushing past Tissaia into the room. “I think you're wrong. I don't think she's scared of being blind. I think she's scared of _you_.”

A flash of outrage, but still, no lightning, though Geralt noticed how many new black marks marred the walls of Yennefer's room, the heavy smell of ozone, the air charged as if before a storm. Tissaia drew herself up, letting go of the door frame. “And what sort of advice are you about to dispense, Witcher? Do tell me how your expertise in magic will solve this problem.”

Geralt ignored her, moving silently until he was at Yennefer's bedside, and carefully brushed a lock of hair from her face, letting his fingertips trail carefully down long her jaw. Was it just his foolish hope that she shifted, that she responded to his touch? No, it wasn't just in his head, he remembered too clearly her voice, rough and heavy, calling his name. She'd blasted him full in the face with her magic as soon as she'd woken up, yes, but she had controlled it once she realized he was there, and he had to believe that she could, would, again. “My expertise isn't in magic,” he snapped back, pulling the chair over and sinking heavily into it, his attention never leaving Yennefer's face. “I know _her._ Send up some apple juice, and get your healers ready for when she wakes up again.”

***

The sleeping draught tasted like chalk in Yennefer's throat as its effects began to fade and she felt the rough bed and the smell of burnt linen in her nose. She jerked awake and chaos came at her beckon. “ _Yenn_ ,” a quiet familiar voice hissed, at the same moment a rough calloused hand took hers. “Yennefer, listen to me. You're hurt, but you're safe. I'm right here with you, and if you promise not to throw another blast of lightning at my face, I brought you some apple juice.”

The smell of crisp apples rose to her nose as Geralt shifted beside her, no doubt pouring the promised drink. Yennefer's hand curled around his familiar one, and his grip was a reassuring weight in the darkness. She breathed deeply, and let go of the chaos at her fingertips. “Sodden Hill--” she said, hearing the crack in her own voice, knowing he heard the plea for news. “Where am I?”

A slow exhale and she thought she smelled wolfs bane on his breath. She expected it was not actually there, but she had kissed him enough times with his witcher's elixirs still lingering on his tongue that every memory of him was touched by the bitter poison, the reminder of what he was, what she was, how their fates were tangled in each other. But there was no anger there, not now. He was simply _there_... and it was a comfort. “Drink first, and maybe you'll be less liable to throw something at me,” he answered, and she felt the cool metal rim of the goblet at her lips, and the sweet taste of apples on her tongue.

Yennefer forced herself to take measured sips, lest she choke on the first palatable thing that's crossed her lips. “I can't see, Geralt,” she reminded him. “You'd be able to duck anything I threw.” Except she felt herself keenly aware of him, of the almost painfully slow beat of his heart, the warmth and solidity of him next to her.

“We're at Aretuza.” His reluctance was clear in his voice. “We found you at Sodden Hill. Tissaia de Vries brought us here, and the healers have been trying to heal the rest of your injuries. Except every time they came in here, you started throwing lightning.” The goblet left her lips, and she heard it clink against a wooden table, somewhere to her left. His other hand rested on hers, his calloused thumb tracing a circle on her wrist. “Yenn, I know you. You're not flinging lightning because you can't control yourself,” he continued in a low murmur, and she felt him rest his forehead against hers, his hair brushing her cheek like the ghost of a kiss. “Tissaia owes you her life, and the rest of the lot. But you're afraid. Why?”

Yennefer shook her head, unable or unwilling to form her thoughts into words. She groped for anything at all, and focused on the warmth of his hands on hers. Telepathy traditionally required eye contact, but this was Geralt... she knew him far more intimately than nearly anyone in her long life, and there was more tying them together than physical intimacy. She reached for him with her mind, gently, almost skittishly. It was a danger, to do this, to share in this way.

She heard his sharp breath of surprise when he realized what she was offering, and the almost imperceptible nod, the surrender to her wordless offering. She kept her presence small, and offered him a simple memory: a glimpse of the pools beneath Aretuza, Tissaia transforming the less gifted adepts into eels, Yennefer herself sweeping them into the pool.

_Sometimes the best thing a flower can do for us is die_.

***

The memory of Tissaia's words rang in Geralt's mind as he felt the weight of her fear hit him like a manticore's blow. “She won't touch you, Yenn, I swear,” he growled, rage sweeping through him at the depth of her fear, at what simmered beneath the wounded woman in his arms. He felt her break the contact in his mind, though her hands remained in his. He shifted, pressed his lips against her forehead. “I'll be right here, if you'll let the healer in.”

She nodded against him, her voice soft, as if whatever strength she had she'd spent. And given what she'd shared with him, perhaps it had. “Stay with me.”


End file.
